Page 4 of Prince of Masks
Mother is probably planning on having the chair burnt to a crisp the moment I’m out of the office.
The whole time in this cerulean office, I didn’t speak a word. I wasn’t asked a single question.
Now, I do speak, and my voice is a croak, “Thank you.”
Mother’s smile is instant. Small, slight, and she shifts her dainty hand from her nose, as though to reach out and touch me, soothe me.
But reality strikes her.
Her mouth slants before she takes another step back, and retreats with her hand finding her nose again.
A faint sigh unribbons from me, sags my shoulders, and I leave the office, my sock-clad feet padding on the floors. My boots were kicked off in the driveway.
I depart the Blue Wing for the Green Wing.
My bedchamber is sage green, soft and country all throughout, from the bedroom and the bathroom to the study, the kitchenette and the walk-in-robe. It’s nice, but all that really matches sage is cream. So, that means, all my furniture is cream.
I dread the stains I’m about to track all over the room, and oh gods,the rugs. I don’t exactly plan on rolling through my room and making a mess, but the slightest tired stumble into the rear of a pale loveseat, or a brush up against the arm of a chair, it worms my gut with worry.
As I thud my way down the runner rug that softens the long, narrow corridor trimmed with gold, a solution starts to chug in my sluggish mind.
From the grates tucked low on the walls, beady eyes gleam at me, watching me closely. The imps, waiting for me to pass so that they can scrub up my tracks.
Sure, I kicked off my rubber boots on the gravel outside before I stepped foot in the foyer, but much of the manure is dried-out now, cracked and flaking, and it just takes some sprinklings of it to fall off my moving body and land on the rug.
The imps will be hard at work, following my path from Father’s office, the whole trek to my room.
Finally, I reach the cream lacquered door, the door to the only bedroom in this corridor.
Oliver is in the Green Wing with me, but two floors up. His room ismassive. Extended over time into neighbouring rooms, because ‘the heir must have his own office and library’, Father once said when I dared complain.
Not to mention, part of Oliver’s wardrobe is a vault for his timepieces, and he has the better balcony on this side of Elcott.
I’m too tired, too drained, to even roll my eyes.
I face the door, but before I reach for the handle, I start on my solution to protect my chamber.
I strip.
Right here, in the corridor, imp-eyes all over me, I tug off the sweater, peel smeared socks from my clammy and cold feet, then writhe out of the damp sweatpants.
After a few fumbled moments and muttered curses, I stand in only my underwear just as a rattle comes from down the corridor.
Chin touching my shoulder, I frown at the servant hastening out of the dimmer shadows.
The soft lampshade lights bounce off of her coal-black breeches, flickering with each rushed step she takes towards me, and for a moment, it looks as though her uniform is made from embers. The deep red hue matches her crown-braided hair and the flush of her creased cheeks.
Mrs Younge.
Mr Younge’s counterpart. His wife and our family’s steward.
She’s not one to visit me or my room. This is beneath her. Below her duties.
I lower my frown to the tray in her blotchy grip.
I suppose there weren’t many women on staff in the middle of the day to help me, and no male servant is allowed in my chambers. There might not be many female servants around at all right now, since it’s the school semester, and many of the servants take their holidays around this time, visiting family, caring for their children, whatever their lives are filled with outside of Elcott Abbey.
I wouldn’t know.
